


A Sherlock Party That Doesn't End In Disaster

by midnightecho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Happy, Implied Johnlock, Unrequited Sherlolly, so many brOTPs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightecho/pseuds/midnightecho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's New Year (post-Belgravia, pre-Reichenbach) and it's party time. That's about all you need to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sherlock Party That Doesn't End In Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year one and all! Or should I say… happy new Sherlock?! BECAUSE NEW SHERLOCK<3  
> -wrote this before the new ep aired-

“Just a few of us; me, Molly, Anderson…”

“Oh of course _Anderson_ ’s going to be there, isn’t he?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I know you don’t get on particularly _well,_ but –”

“And it’s Molly, Anderson and I.”

“What?”

“Not ‘me, Molly and Anderson’: Molly, Anderson _and I_.”

“Whatever. Come if you want to; you can always bring John for company, or Mrs Hudson?”

“Mrs Hudson can’t leave Baker Street, England will fall. And I take John most places whether people want me to or not.”

“Well it’s a good job we’d like him there anyway, then.”

“Yes, it is.”

“So does that mean you’ll come?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. A long moment. Lestrade wasn’t sure whether he was thinking over his answer or really focused on whatever he was examining through his microscope and was about to ask again, but then –

“Does Anderson _have_ to come?” Sherlock finally looked up at Lestrade, his bottom lip stuck out like a petulant child and a moody look in his eyes.

“Yes he does – I’ve already managed to keep Donovan away for you, be happy with that.”

Sherlock made an exasperated noise and apparently concluded that he’d lost the debate. “Fine. Text me the details.”

He went back to his microscope and said no more on the subject. Lestrade stood expectantly for a moment more before realising that that was the end of it and he was now expected to leave. He shook his head to himself at the lack of any kind of parting niceties (that, to be honest, he should be more than used to by now) as he headed for the door. Sherlock was a genius, but by God he needed to work on his social skills.

*

It was a far shorter time than Sherlock would have liked before the lab door swung open again and yet another ordinary person walked into his own little space. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t _any_ other person – but John always _talked_.

His friend (it had taken some careful consideration and mental debates for Sherlock to finally decide that yes, John was a friend – to be perfectly honest, he had never really had anyone he considered a friend. Everyone he knew from school could be filed under bully or stranger, Molly and Lestrade were colleagues, Mycroft was a measure for achievement more than he was a member of family, Mrs Hudson was [not] a housekeeper and Anderson was just an idiot. But after meeting his new flatmate and sharing a few life-threatening situations with him, Sherlock had resolved that he had, at last, found a true friend. Yes, there were traits like the talking that made him far from perfect, but all in all John was what society considered ‘a good bloke’, even served in the army, and he ‘got’ Sherlock better than anyone else had ever managed to. And Sherlock liked that) sat himself down on the other side of the lab bench and ripped open a newspaper, pretending to scan the latest articles before saying, “So you’re going to the new year bash?”

He said the last word as though imitating the colloquialism of an inferior social class. It made Sherlock smile. Internally.

“I agreed I would attend, yes; why? does that surprise you?”

“You in a social situation voluntarily? No, why on earth would that surprise me?” Sherlock could picture John’s expression perfectly – minutely raised brows, the slightly widening eyes, both directed at the jumbled letters on the page rather than at him – just from the subtle edge of sarcasm that John was far too comfortable using with him nowadays. Sherlock shot an exasperated glance at him over the microscope’s eyepiece and was correct in his assumption that John would miss this glance thanks to his absorption in not reading today’s news.

John must’ve sensed it, however, as the corner of his mouth twitched and he continued as though Sherlock had put this glance into a literate response such as ‘shut the fuck up John’.

“That Christmas was bad enough; I don’t think I can go through that with Anderson thrown into the mix.”

“I can’t bear thinking about an entire social evening with _Anderson,”_ Sherlock replied bitterly, as though proving he hadn’t had a sudden polarisation of character, “but Lestrade persuaded me.”

“How could Lestrade possibly persuade you into this?”

Sherlock looked back up to John, who had given up all folly and dumped his newspaper on the bench and was facing him directly, a genuinely curious smile warming his features. Their gazes held for a moment too long.

 _Bang._ “Oh shhhh-” – _clatter_ – “Sorry, I hope I’m not – um – interrupting anything.”

Molly Hooper. Of course.

“No no, not at all,” John said, whisking the daily rag from the surface as though tidying up would improve impressions, and pulling a stool out beside him so she could join them. How wonderful.

Mercifully, she didn’t sit down. “Oh, that’s okay, I’m not stopping; I just came to drop off the results from that post mortem you wanted –” she rustled in her bag and pulled out a file and held it out to Sherlock, who had gone back to his slides and was pretending to be oblivious, before sighing and leaving it on the bench “– and I brought supplies!” She added with more enthusiasm than was necessary (as was the Molly Hooper way) as she produced two packets of Quavers and popped them down beside the file.

John gave a little laugh and thanked her.

“Anyway, I was just popping in, I’d best be off – oh! And I’ll see you at mine for the party! Greg said you were coming.”

“Oh _God,_ is that all anyone can talk about today? It’s just a bloody party.”

Molly had known Sherlock a good few years, but she still looked at Sherlock as though he’d just slapped her in the face.

“Sherlock…” John said softly, but all he gained was a stubborn shrug and a silence that made it clear he wouldn’t give Molly anything close to an apology. “I’m so sorry Molly…” John said in his stead.

Molly had regained her composure and was perhaps a little too bubbly when she said, “Oh, it’s fine, I know what he’s like. Anyway, um, I’ll see you two tomorrow.” She beamed at John, who gave some conventional farewell in return. “Bye Sherlock,” she added with a hopeful look in his direction, but to no avail. She gave a small resigned nod before heading back out the door she had stumbled through.

*

John was in a bit of a state. He knew he shouldn’t be; after all, tonight’s do was ‘just a bloody party’. After half an hour he’d been through his entire wardrobe twice and had still ended up with five options laid out on the bed; a cream jumper, a striped jumper, a spotty jumper, a jumper with a nice big ‘J’ on the front (that one had been from Mrs Hudson last year) and a Christmas jumper bearing a reindeer with a sparkly pompom nose, any of which he would wear with his regular neutral trousers. The trouble was, _which jumper?!_

Whilst John was flapping about, Sherlock flung the door open and marched into the bedroom without any warning.

“What are you doing?!” John wheezed, so flustered by the jumper affair that he was exhausted by the thought of having to deal with Sherlock’s logical jargon right now.

“I’m getting the cigarettes you stole from my secret stash; I’m going to need them for tonight.”

“No, I mean why did you just charge in without knocking? I could’ve been changing or something...”

“Why should that worry you, John? It’s just your partially-dressed body, nothing to be ashamed of –”

“No, I’m not, but – basic _privacy,_ Sherlock!” John’s voice had reached such a high pitch that his friend shot him a mildly concerned look. “I’m sorry, I’m just a bit stressed.”

“Why are you _stressed?_ It’s just a –”

“Yeah, I know, just a bloody party,” John filled in, complete with mimed quote marks. “I can’t decide what to wear though.”

Sherlock gave a derisive sigh at John’s stereotypically base desire to ‘dress to impress’. “Well,” he began, sounding as bored as ever, “you obviously can’t wear the Christmas jumper as a) it is no longer Christmas, although we do remain in the following 12 days of the season, and b) the party is to celebrate new year: QED. The spots don’t suit you as well as the stripes, the cream is so everyday it will look like you’ve put no effort or thought in at all and – why am I even bothering doing this? It’s not like _I_ care what you wear. I hope you appreciate that accidental dress advice that came about purely by our deep abiding friendship subconsciously supplying me with the means to assist you in any way possible.” He gave his most sarcastic smile before turning back to the door with an overdramatic roll of his eyes and stalked out the room, pulling out a cigarette as he went.

John should’ve been used to Sherlock’s unexpected onslaught of pure unabridged words by now, but in the state he was in, it took a few moments to fully process what had just been said. He stood gaping at the door after his friend had left while it all ticked through his mind, and eventually he shut his mouth and looked back down at the spread of clothing on his bed. He removed the ones that had been deemed unworthy by logic itself and found himself left with the striped one and the J jumper from Mrs Hudson. John noted that Sherlock had become too frustrated at their deep abiding friendship before he’d commented on the J jumper. “What about the one with the J on it?” he yelled through the flat.

“Mrs Hudson isn’t going to be there; you don’t _have_ to wear that ugly thing, so don’t,” came the raised voice in response (and a distant “Oi!” came from the living room where Mrs Hudson was busy not being their housekeeper). “Not that I care.”

John chuckled to himself and put the jumper from Mrs Hudson back in the wardrobe with the others and gave an approving nod at the striped one that remained. “You really think stripes suit me?” he yelled through.

Sherlock ignored the tone of over-exaggerated flattered-ness, or just didn’t notice it at all. “Of course they do – horizontal, anyway; they broaden your shoulders and make you seem –” – John was audibly laughing at his third success in under a minute to get Sherlock to babble about something he didn’t want to – _“FOR GOD’S SAKE, JOHN!”_

*

Anderson was the first to arrive at Molly’s that evening.

When the door was pulled open, he found himself face to face with a baggy snowman jumper and a flushed face.

“Oh! Philip! You’re early! Wow, not a problem, not a problem, um... Yeah, come in, make yourself at home!” she babbled, gesturing to the living room with a bright smile. “I’ve got stuff in the oven – I’ll be back in a mo.”

She’d shuffled off before Anderson had a chance to say hello, so he wandered through and took a seat on the sofa. It was a nice little place; cosy but not cramped, decorated with odds and ends that just screamed Molly Hooper. The main furnishings were quite quaint as though taken from a cottage in the country, but then here and there were things like a blood-cuffed jacket over the back of a chair, test tubes scattered across files and paper that cover the table top and, in one corner, a riding crop. Well, she had never struck Anderson as being into that kind of thing, but people could always surprise you.

“Sorry about that.” Molly stood in the kitchen doorway pulling oven gloves off her hands, the front of her hair wispy from the heat over the oven and making her look a little flustered. She was busy trying to sort out something just inside the door at the same time as trying to summon smalltalk from somewhere that was plainly the back of her mind at the moment.

“Do you want a hand with anything?”

“Oh it’s fine –”

“No, honestly, what needs doing?” Anderson insisted with a kind smile, heading over.

Molly gave him an appreciative smile. “Well basically I just need all the snacks put into bowls and a few plates out to serves the hot stuff onto, and then it can go onto the table in the lounge.”

Anderson reached the kitchen and suddenly realised why Molly was so flustered; to say the kitchen was small would be an overstatement. The kitchen table was at most one square metre and was filled with the aforementioned snacks and bowls along with a line of bottles of drink at the back, and the two stools that sat by the one side of it that wasn’t flanked by a wall were almost doubled in height thanks to the stacks of paraphernalia that had occupied the table half an hour before. A measly fridge-freezer was squeezed into another corner of the room with a kettle and toaster on top and the sink was squeezed in next to it. The cooker had one cupboard’s worth of work surface beside it and two more cupboards sat above them. There was hardly space for one person to turn around, but Anderson squeezed in beside the table and got to work quietly.

He was just about to take up the task of smalltalk inducer when Molly switched on the tiny portable radio that was hidden somewhere in a corner that Anderson hadn’t even spotted. The Pogues blasted into the small room a little that Anderson was expecting.

“Sorry!” Molly gasped before turning the volume down to a reasonable level. “I usually have it on pretty loud when I’m in another room.”

She looked so apologetic that after a moment, Anderson began to hum along to the Fairytale of New York to reassure her. Also it just happened to be his all-time favourite Christmas song and could never resist singing along whenever it came on the radio.

Molly glanced up and grinned at his slightly out-of-tune mumblings and began to sing along with him with a twinkle in her eye as she put a tray in the oven. Before the verse was over they were both singing at the top of their lungs, not caring that neither of them could reach half the notes but certainly having a good laugh as they plated up. Molly seemed a little surprised at the number of latest hits that Anderson knew every word of (including some rap verses), impressed even. All he said was, “Hey, I’m down with the kids.” Neither could resist snorting at that.

About twenty minutes later, when almost all the food was out, the doorbell went.

“Crap,” Molly muttered. “I’ve got to get changed yet.”

“Leave the last of this to me, and I’ll grab the door; you go get ready,” Anderson said in a way that made it clear that there was no negotiation or politeness needed. Molly hurried off immediately.

It turned out to be Lestrade at the door, a bottle of wine in each hand as hospitality gifts for the host.

“Pop them on the table over there; Molly’s just getting changed, she’ll be through in a minute.” Anderson motioned into the lounge and he and Greg finished transferring the last of the food and drink just as Molly came back through.

She looked, quite simply, beautiful. She had on a white dress with an intricate lace bodice and full petticoated skirt and a delicate silver necklace with a simple heart pendant. Two plaits from her temples met at the back of her head and the rest of her hair was straight and smooth, reminding Anderson of and elf of Middle Earth. The overall affect was stunning.

He told her as much, at which she blushed, and then realised that Greg was gazing at her in perhaps a little too open wonder. Anderson elbowed him and he coughed, murmuring something in agreement.

Sherlock and John arrived soon after and before long, they were all sat around, with the radio setting a background vibe of general merriment, in amiable conversation.

Well, mostly.

“So how were your holidays, Greg?”

“Oh, not too bad; went up to visit my mum, she’s been in hospital but the doctors say she’s on the mend now.”

“How ‘on the mend’ can you be from cancer at 89?” Sherlock muttered, without much interest or concern, as though he’d been simply stating the weather.

The room went silent. After a moment he seemed to sense something was wrong and looked up from his phone to find, to his apparent surprise, everyone staring at him. “What?”

“Come on Sherlock, I thought you didn’t want a repeat of Christmas?” John hissed from beside him, visibly fuming.

Anderson had heard about _that_ Christmas party; experiencing the kind of atmosphere he’d been told about during the catch-up conversations due to Sherlock’s various inputs, he was glad he hadn’t been there otherwise he probably would have slapped the so-called genius. He was tempted to now.

“Just think before you talk, okay?” The look John gave Sherlock, the combination of that steely intensity and a desperate pleading, would have brought anyone to sense, and it worked better than anything Anderson had ever know on Sherlock, who sat a little less taller and even apologised with dignified shame to Lestrade.

The conversation went relatively smoothly from that point on, with everyone relaxing more and more as they drank more and more. Molly was the perfect hostess as she kept everyone topped up on drinks and with food, and at one point had a lengthy chat with Anderson about the development of forensic technology. Greg shared what seemed like every story under the sun and John retold (at least twice) how Sherlock had been thrown into his life and how much better things were these days. Sherlock didn’t seem particularly into to the anecdotes and chatter, aside from John’s, but he did pay vague attention and smile when everyone else laughed; Anderson even heard a chuckle from him at one point.

By 11:50pm, Sherlock was lying down on the sofa with his feet on the arm and his head in John’s lap. Greg and Anderson were laughing over the worst auditions for the latest series of X-Factor (they had both admitted to each other at the last party they had both been at that they were complete suckers for trashy telly – Anderson often forgot in the workplace how good a friend he had in Greg. He really was a decent bloke and he got along with him better than a lot of the other people at the station. Maybe they should go out for drinks some time) and Molly was just finishing topping up everyone’s drinks for the nth time.

“Ooh! I almost forgot!” she said, setting down the bottle and fiddling with something on one of the shelves. “Everyone up, we’re going to have a group photo; last photo of the year!”

“Not unless John refrains from taking any more selfies in the next ten minutes,” Sherlock put in with a glance up at John and a smirk. They’d all seen John’s Facebook: it was selfie central.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” John laughed in response, lifting Sherlock’s head and standing to join the others. Sherlock stood up in one movement with more grace than a man of his build should have and followed, stashing his phone in his pocket.

Molly finished setting up the camera and turned to inspect her photo’s subjects. “Right, if we have John in the front, and I’ll come stand next to you, and Sherlock – stand by Phil.”

“Who’s _Phil?”_

Anderson rolled his eyes. “Come on, _really?”_

Sherlock looked at him with a genuine confusion that only crossed his features when he’d had a little to drink and wasn’t his usual deductive self.

 _"You’re_ Phil?”

“No, my first name is Agent.” Sherlock just looked even more perplexed, but John and Greg chuckled. “Of course I’m Phil; how did you not know that?!”

Lestrade leaned in and said, “Don’t be too offended; he didn’t know my name for years either.”

“Ah yes, _Greg,”_ Sherlock said with the same tone of someone stating absurdity as he had done the first time he’d been told the Inspector’s forename.

 _“Seven_ minutes, guys; we can talk about who’s called what next year,” Molly insisted as they all shuffled into position. She pressed the capture button and ran forward as a red light counted down the seconds to the take.

They all managed to look relatively happy in that first photo; what Molly forgot to mention was that the setting took three photos in a row, so the moments after were captured as well in all their glory.

After the first flash, Anderson went to have another sip of his beer.

“Oi!” Sherlock exclaimed, turning on him.

“What?”

“You elbowed me! On purpose!”

“Why would I do that on _purpose?”_

“Oh, shut up you two,” John said, turning on Molly’s little TV set. “The coverage is on; it’s almost midnight.”

Molly quickly supplied everyone with party poppers and everyone stood together watching the standard interviews of the London crowd as the minutes ticked down. Before long the 10 seconds were up on Big Ben and they were all counting down together, they could hear people in the flats around them as they did the same thing, and then 3… 2… 1… it was a new year. The cheers and poppers could not drown out the distant thunder of the fireworks over the Thames that always stayed one step ahead of the television. They drained their drinks and danced to Auld Lang Syne (although Sherlock abstained from that), and when that had finished, the songs coming through from the radio did not. Anderson had a dance or two with Molly and when he was exhausted and slow from drink, he finally took a seat.

He glanced across to where Sherlock was sat beside John with a Molly perched on the arm beside him. For a moment Anderson caught his eye and raised his glass in Sherlock’s direction. For a moment, he thought – he hoped Sherlock would respond in some noticeable way, but he only held his gaze for a moment longer then looked down and away.

 

The party had been a general success, Molly thought to herself as she took a seat on the arm of the sofa beside Sherlock. There hadn’t been any major disasters, which counted as a success in her books. Even Sherlock had behaved himself, mostly, and now he sat beside her with a whiskey in one hand and he turned to her with a gentle and genuine smile. “Happy New Year, Molly Hooper.”


End file.
